


Sweet Talkin’, Sugar Coated Handy Man

by OriginalCeenote



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Bucky has Sam on speed dial, Flirting, Home Improvement, Hurt/Comfort, Insomnia, M/M, Mentions of PTSD, New Home Ownership, Panic Attack, Sam Wilson is a Good Son, Sam Wilson is a Realtor, Sam keeps helping Bucky, he's not flirting back with him AT ALL, major cuddling, the author is a horrible person, veteran bucky barnes, veteran sam wilson, wounded bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 21:52:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13866741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OriginalCeenote/pseuds/OriginalCeenote
Summary: Sam manages to sell a fixer-upper to a combat veteran who’s ready to put down roots in the suburbs. But when he told him “Keep in touch if you need anything else,” he didn't expect James Barnes to take him so seriously.Guy had Wilson onspeed dial,fer cripes’ sake.





	Sweet Talkin’, Sugar Coated Handy Man

**Author's Note:**

> Back when the Sam Wilson Birthday Bang was still running, I had tentatively scribbled a bit of this and then discarded it. This was easier to write without a deadline.

“Sam?” He looked up from the folder of loan paperwork at the sound of his name. Carol smiled at him from the doorway of his office, still wearing her phone headset. “Your two o’clock is here.” Sam glanced at his Outlook calendar and saw that the five-minute reminder had expired ten minutes ago.

“Shoot. Okay. Send him in.”

“Sure will, boss.” Carol gave him an indulgent smile. “More coffee?”

“No. I’m wired enough. Thank you.”

“Okey dokey. I’ll bring him back.”

She disappeared down the corridor, and moments later, he heard her “He’s ready for you, now, James.” Her high heels clicked their way back toward Sam’s office, followed by a now familiar, deep male voice.

 

Carol returned and stopped at the edge of Sam's doorway, and her smile was coy as she nodded for James to go inside. Sam turned its smile up to its full wattage, since he was one of his favorite clients. Over his shoulder, he saw Carol's smile break into a full grin as her eyes flicked down to his backside, because _c'mon, Carol._ She hustled back to the front desk, leaving Sam to compose himself and to remember that he was selling this man a house.

It was easy to get distracted.

James looked tanned and fresh in a gray t-shirt that said "Pain is just weakness leaving the body" and a pair of faded jeans. His hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, long enough to reach just below his collar. Sam caught a whiff of his cologne as he stood and shook his hand over his desk. His grip was warm and strong and gave Sam little thrills up and down his arm. His eyes crinkled and his smile was like sunshine.

"Hello, again."

"Hello, Sam. It's nice to see you again in person, Sam."

"Ready to become a homeowner?"

"Oh, you know it." James rubbed his hands together and sat down, face eager. "I've been looking forward to this all week."

"Hope you've been working out, because you're about to exercise those forearm muscles signing paperwork." Sam produced a huge manila envelope full of forms and a silver Cross pen. He slid the folder across the desk and handed James the pen. His fingertips grazed Sam's, and he felt himself flush. And those forearms weren’t puny, either. They were sculpted, and he had graceful, beautiful veins. _Pull it together, Wilson._

"This is a nice pen."

"My mom gave it to me when I got my real estate license."

"She has good taste."

Sam's cheeks wouldn't stop prickling and his smile kept tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Okay. So, let's walk you through that packet."

Sam read each form upside down as Bucky reviewed each one, pointing to each number explaining his loan terms, interest and due dates, showing where to initial and sign. He sipped his large, lidded tumblr of ice water from the plastic straw before it hit him.

"Do you want some water?"

"Is there a water cooler anywhere, or a fountain?"

"Carol can walk some back, if you'd like."

"Or she can show me where to get it. She looked busy."

Yet Carol popped in a moment later, grin back in place. "Did you say you wanted some water?"

Sam raised his brow and bit his lip. "Or you can show him where to get it."

"No, no, no. No trouble. Sit. Relax. Back in a flash." Maybe she was _just this side of a little too effusive._ (Sam gathered she didn't care.) Moments later, Bucky nodded his thanks, Dixie cup in hand, and they resumed Sam's spiel. It took them the better part of an hour to plow through the forms, exchanging banter and questions. Sam snuck looks at him, noticing small details like the way he furrowed his brow as he read through small print; his nervous habit of tugging on his earlobe when he tried to remember something; a web of fine scars along his hand which, when he lifted it to scratch his neck, Sam noticed stretched all the way up his arm, disappearing into the edge of his sleeve. In the back of Sam's mind, a voice reminded him, He's lucky.

And now, Sam had just sold James Buchanan Barnes a house. Pride bloomed in Sam's chest when he handed him the small envelope holding his keys.

"Welcome to the next thirty years of your life. Barbecues. Hanging a hammock in the backyard. No upstairs neighbors walking across the floor in steel-toed boots."

"King of my castle."

"King James."

"King Bucky," he corrected.

"That's right... sorry. I forgot that's what you liked to be called."

"My kid sister started it. It just stuck. You know about a thousand Jameses. But I'm the only 'Bucky' you've ever met."

"Now, how did you know that?"

Bucky raised his brows. "What, I'm not?"

"No. You are. Just messing with you, James!"

They rose from their seats, and Sam rounded his desk to shake his hand again. "I'll walk you out."

“Thanks for making this such a great experience. And a great memory,” Bucky told Sam.

“That’s why I went into this business, man.” He clapped Bucky on his beefy - rock-hard - shoulder and said “Take care.”

“Likewise, Sam.”

He climbed into his Jeep and backed out of his parking space, and he waved one last time to Sam, who only then realized that he was still staring.

*

Sam’s phone rang a couple of days later as he refilled his coffee mug; he reached into his pocket and noticed the familiar number and smiled as he accepted the call. “Good morning, Bucky. What’s shaking?”

“Hey. I was wondering if you could recommend a good electrician. I’ve got an outlet that needs replacing in my kitchen.”

“Oh. The fun’s starting already, huh?”

Bucky’s voice sounded amused, and Sam pictured that gorgeous smile. “You told me the house needed a little love,” he reminded Sam. 

“Lensherr Electric Contracting. They have the biggest ad in the yellow pages. Four-star rating on Yelp. They give you a good rate and great service.”

“You’re a lifesaver. I was thinking about having my fixture replaced in the guest bedroom, too. Okay! I’m excited! I figured you were the perfect person to ask about this, Sam.”

“I’ve been in this area a long time,” Sam agreed. “My pop knew a lot of the contractors in town. He was a roofer. He really taught me to appreciate going into a business that I could run on my own. Even though I work with some great people.”

“I believe it. He sounds like a great man.”

Sam’s smile faltered a moment. “He really is.”

The conversation paused a moment. “Hey. Sorry if I interrupted your work, Sam.”

“No! Not at all!” Sam felt himself flush, even though the man wasn’t even standing there. “It’s my pleasure. My door’s… uh… always open.” Sam noticed Carol walk into the break room and nodded at her, trying to look casual, but she raised her eyebrows at his awkward posture.

She raised her hand to her face in a phone-cradling gesture. “Who’s on the phone?” she mouthed. Sam held up his finger to plead for a minute to finish his call.

“I’ll hold you to that. Have a great day, Sam.”

“You too. Good luck making that home a castle.”

When he ended the call, Carol pried, “Why are you smiling?”

“Oh. No reason. That was just Mr. Barnes. He had a question. Wanted a little advice on an electrician.”

“Lensherr’s, all the way,” she agreed. “He just called you out of the blue, huh?”

“Yeah. Just for a minute.”

“That’s nice that he knows you’re the man to ask.” She grabbed her own Starbucks mug from the cupboard and poured some flavored creamer into it before Sam served her some of the coffee. 

“Not just selling the house. Selling the dream.”

“You’re quoting the billboards, again.”

*

A couple of days later, Sam received a text. He turned down the heat on his chicken breasts and stir-fried broccoli and grinned as he read it.

_Know a good landscaper? Or a place where I can rent a trench digger? I’m putting in sprinklers._ The house’s former owner didn’t landscape the backyard beyond planting a couple of peach trees that needed just as much love as the rest of the house. 

Sam texted back, _Try Elder’s Excavation Tools, if you’re looking to do it yourself. If not, try the HydroMan Sprinkler Design._

That earned Sam several smiling emojis and _See? This is why I can count on you._

Warm fuzzies ran up and down his arms, and Sam wondered to himself how just a text could make him feel like a twelve-year-old girl.

*

And maybe Sam wasn’t _quite_ this involved with his clients when he closed a sale. None of them had ever retained him as a consultant after they signed the title, but there was just something nice about being trusted for his opinion. 

And maybe it was overkill, on Sam’s part, when he just so _happened_ to be in Bucky’s neighborhood and parked a couple of houses down. And maybe he couldn’t stop the smile that spread across his face at the sight of him atop his roof, shirtless and wearing a battered pair of jeans and work gloves. His skin was tanned and slicked with sweat, and he wore a baseball cap to keep the sun out of his eyes. His hair was bound in a short ponytail to keep it off his neck, and it did something to Sam’s insides to watch him swipe at the sweat gathered at his nape.

_Unnnnnfffffhhh…_

Sam got out of the car and clicked it locked with his keychain, and he carried the small box of donuts and the cardboard drink carrier across the street. Bucky looked up at the sound of his car door slam, and he paused in his hammering. Even from the street, that smile of Bucky’s was breathtaking.

“Morning.”

“Morning. Brought you a little motivation. Oughta help keep you going.”

“Oh, Sam, I could use it.” 

“I could come up, and bring it to you?”

“Uh-uh. I’m ready to come down for a minute and cool my heels.” Sam set down the coffee and donuts and held the ladder still for Bucky to climb down, and he got a nice view of that butt, shrink-wrapped in those jeans from a better angle. _Thank you, Mrs. Barnes, for blessing the world with this fine-looking man._ When Bucky reached the lawn, he reached out to shake Sam’s hand just as firmly and warmly as before. “You must’ve heard my SOS. And my stomach growling.”

“It looks like you’re making progress.”

“Slow and steady,” Bucky agreed. “This will help.” He sipped from the cup of coffee Sam handed him and made an appreciative noise. “I’m not close to your office. I hope I didn't put you out of your way?”

“You’re close to my gym. Just came from there, and I figured I’d stop by for a hot minute.” He glanced up at the roof. “Just thought I’d check in.”

“Didn’t you once tell me your dad did this for a living?”

“He did, up until recently. Mama told him he had to slow down. Just had a shoulder replacement surgery, and she wants him to retire.”

“Does he think she’s trying to spoil his fun?”

“Mm-hm. Pop goes up onto that roof to get some peace and quiet,” Sam teased. Bucky smirked over the lip of his coffee and nodded.

“So much for a man’s house being his castle.”

“Mama’s the Queen. Make no mistake about that, my friend.”

They sat on Bucky’s front porch on his new wicker chairs, enjoying the donuts and the shade. 

“So, what else brought you by, Sam?”

“I just wanted to see how you were settling in. Looks like you’ve been busy.”

“It’s moving along.” Bucky uncoiled the cinnamon roll and bit deeply into the length of dough.

“Does it feel good?”

Bucky nodded, “mm-hm’ing” through the mouthful of donut. 

“Good. That’s good.” And Sam stared around Bucky’s neighborhood, watching as the man in the yard on the left washed his gray minivan in his driveway. There were a couple of grade schoolers riding scooters down into the cul-de-sac, while another father and son shot baskets. It a comfortable little corner of the community. Peaceful. Predictable. And it was just what the doctor ordered for one Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, no longer active duty. 

He wasn’t shy about this scars; nor, thought Sam, should be ever be. They cut across formerly pristine skin like shards, where a bomb blast caught his arm and shoulder. The skin was mottled and tightly drawn despite multiple corrective, cosmetic surgeries. But the muscle tone underneath was exquisite and well maintained. Bucky waved and nodded to his neighbors as they passed, indeed a man comfortable in his own skin. And Sam was honored to be the one to give this to him: A safe home to return to, where he was solely in charge. And permanence.

Sam quelled the urge to ask him the more invasive questions. “Have you had any company over yet?”

“Counting you? Just one person so far,” Bucky admitted. And did _that_ warm Sam all the way down to his toes.

“When you have more time, you can give me the nickel tour.”

“When I have time? I’ll make time for that tour, Wilson. C’mon. Bring your coffee.” Sam got up and followed him, pleased and still feeling a little flutter in his gut. 

The house smelled fresh, even though Sam noticed some dust in the kitchen. “Just finished the new tile a couple of days ago. Just have to seal it,” Bucky told him. The new travertine tile had a whitish cast from the grout dust, but it was beautiful and even. 

“That looks better that the original flooring from when they built the house,” Sam marveled.

“That’s what I was hoping.”

“You might have missed your calling. You could be a property flipper,” Sam told him. “And you can lead those couples through the house who tell you ‘We’re working with a modest budget. We can afford about a half a million dollars on the renovation cost…’”

“Those shows are ridiculous,” Bucky agreed. “It’s one thing if renovating is something you enjoy, but why spend a grip on an unfinished house?”

“That’s why I tell buyers they’d better be sure they love it. It’s a thirty-year commitment. Not unlike a marriage.”

“Well, I feel like I’ve spent as much on this house as I would on someone I’d date,” Bucky confessed. “For what I’ve spent on paint, I could have taken you out on five steak dinners, Sammy.”

Sam chuckled, unsure of whether to read too much into that claim. Bucky’s smile was sly, making those eyes crinkled again, and Sam was a sucker for them. “A steak dinner, huh? With asparagus, baby potatoes, and a nice glass of cav?”

“And creme brulee.”

“Oh, Lord. Where have you been buying _paint_? I could have found you a discount!”

Sam wasn’t going to overdwell on the fact that Bucky had guesstimated how much it would have cost to take Sam out to dinner. 

“I think I need you around more to help me make these decisions and save me from myself.”

“Speaking of which… you need some artwork in here.”

“I know. It’s gonna take a while to make this a home. And for it to feel cozy. I don’t really know… ‘art.’” Bucky made finger quotes around the word.

“I know a guy,” Sam assured him. 

They wandered throughout the rest of the house, while Bucky rambled about this plans. “...I want the guest room to have a real bed, not just a futon. Those things suck to sleep on.”

“I haven’t slept on one since college.”

“Where did you go to school?”

“Morehouse. I went on the GI bill.”

Bucky’s brows rose. “GI?”

“Yup. This is technically my retirement.”

“I knew I liked you,” Bucky assured him, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“Hey. I have to go take care of a few things.”

“Thanks again for stopping by, Sam.” And then, “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

And it was so tempting to stay, maybe even outstay his welcome a little, to discuss all the things that sprang to mind every time he spoke to Bucky, because he made Sam feel so comfortable and he was so easy to be around. 

“Okay,” Sam promised. “I won’t. Don’t have too much fun without me.”

“Don’t think I could.”

*

 

Sam’s mother called him a few days later. “Baby, I need you to stop by and help me thin my bulbs. And maybe you can take some of ‘em off my hands so I don’t have to throw them out.”

“Did you ever find Dad’s old gardening gloves in the garage?”

“No,” Darlene told him, and Sam heard a hint of brittle laughter in her tone. “Your father thinks he might have accidentally thrown them out with a box of junk that he threw out a couple of weeks ago, when he made the dump run.”

Sam shook his head and smiled, even though his mother couldn’t see it “That’s fine. Let me head out and pick up a cheap pair, and I’ll come over.”

“I’ll be so glad to have a second pair of hands,” Darlene confessed. “This front yard’s a mess.”

Sam stopped by the hardware store and bought a sturdy pair of brown gloves; he preemptively added a digging trowel and a pair of bypass pruning shears to his basket, too, and a small tub of fertilizer granules. He knew his mom would appreciate them, and it would certainly make the work go faster if they were well prepared. Sam decided to make a quick trip to Safeway and he picked up a box of tea bags and some lemons.

Darlene grinned at him and turned her cheek up for his kiss when he arrived with the shopping bags. “What did you bring me?”

“Some stuff for iced tea, and a few odds and ends.”

“Bless your sweet soul. I have a jug up on the counter, if you want to use that.”

Sam put the tea bags into the iced tea jug and filled it with water, setting out on the sunny patio before he got to work. Darlene began deadheading the roses while Sam cranked up the lawnmower and cut the front grass. The Wilsons had a generous front yard, and Sam almost regretted the begonias, azaleas, and rose bushes he bought his momma for the past few Mother’s Days in a row. It was gonna take forever to do all that pruning.

But they made a pleasant day out of it. Gideon stopped by and lit up the grill in the backyard and then went into the kitchen to assemble some kebobs,

“Sure. Take the easy part,” Sam accused. His shirt was stuck to him with sweat. He leaned against the patio rail and swiped the back of his wrist across his damp brow.’’

“Y’all are just about finished,” Gideon lied as he glanced around smugly at the back yard. “Looks good.”

“Guess you’re doing the dishes too, then,” Sam challenged. 

“Think I did ‘em last time we ate here.”

“You haven’t washed a sinkful of dishes since Reagan was in office.”

Contrary to Gideon’s insistence that barbecuing was harder work than it looked, he eventually cut the grass in back and raked up the branches from the peach trees after Sam pruned them. By the time Darlene finally poured them all a glass of tea, Sam’s phone decided to ring in his pocket. He noticed he had a few missed texts from Bucky, too.

“Hey, Sammy.”

“Hey, there. What’s new with you, Mr, Barnes.”

“Mr. Barnes is my father. Let’s stick with Bucky.”

“That’s fine with me. What are you up to today?”

“Nothing but trouble. Decorating,” he specified.

Sam threw back his head and laughed. “I take it it’s not going well?”

“I’ve got a window dressing situation. I put up the valances, and they really don’t look right with everything else that I’ve got.” Sam heard the irritation in his voice and pictured him tugging on that short ponytail in frustration.

“Valances? That’s what you were going for?”

“This is why I need your input. And for you to save me from myself.”

Sam gave him a rusty chuckle. “Don’t know how much good I’d be right now. I’m pooped. We just did the yard work at Momma’s. And we let it wait far too long.” Darlene grinned at him over the edge of her iced tea and handed Sam an ice pop from the freezer.

“Ooh, ask him if he wants any bulbs,” Darlene mentioned on a furtive hiss.

“Want any bulbs?”

“Light bulbs?”

“No… no. Flower bulbs. Like, irises. And daffodils. We thinned ‘em out and we have a whole bunch left.”

“So… like, to put in pots?”

“If you want. If you haven’t thought much about what to put in your garden yet.”

“Sam, I’m still stuck on curtains. Help a guy out.”

Sam smiled as he snipped open the end of the ice pop wrapper. “When did you have in mind?”

*

 

“Okay. So, take one look at those and tell me what I did wrong.”

Sam felt his eyebrows fly up into his hairline. He cocked his head slightly and planted his hands on his hips. “That. That’s not. That’s not quite right. What the heck did you _do_??”

The valances were crooked. Sam noticed that right off the bat. There was nothing he hated more than crooked picture frames when he walked past one - truthfully, he _never_ walked _past_ one - so the unparallel curtain rod stood out like a sore thumb above the large picture window.

“That rod’s not horrible, but we need to rehang it.”

“I was feeling so good after I finished the roof,” Bucky muttered, scrubbing his face with his palm. Sam smiled as he reached up and unscrewed the leaf-shaped finial on the end of the curtain rod and lifted the whole thing off the hooks. “I thought I would nail this.”

“We can still take it back to the store. The valance needs some sheers to go with it. Or just do wood blinds.”

“I wanted something simple, but I kinda hate it.”

“We can still do simple. We’re going to fix this.”

Bucky beamed. “Let me get my keys.”

 

They took back the finials and the valances to Target, and Sam redirected Bucky to Home Depot. “They have more window options, my man.” 

“I like it better in here, anyway,” Bucky admitted. “Shopping in Target makes me feel like I’m getting crap for my very first college dorm room.”

“This is where a house becomes a home. Let’s look at the wood blinds.”

They spent the next hour together browsing and joking around, testing out the blind samples with the skinny rods, and chatting with an overattentive store clerk who kept staring down at Bucky’s folded arms. Honestly? Sam didn’t blame her for her audacity.

They left the store with a sturdy set of curtains and metal rings, large finial knobs, and wood blinds that the clerk assured Bucky would hold up to continued wear, especially if he got himself a pet.

Sam helped him rehang the rod, and this time, they got it straight. Bucky was muttering and cussing under his breath as he drilled the pilot holes for the blinds’ brackets in the window frame. “Thanks again for helping me out, Sam.”

“This was my pleasure. Oh, I almost forgot. I have the bulbs.”

“I’ve never had to plant bulbs,” Bucky admitted. “No clue what I’m doin,’ pal.”

“If you’re up for another Home Depot trip, we can get pots.”

“Maybe tomorrow?”

“I’ll put it in my day planner.”

The curtains and rod no longer affronted Sam’s eyes, and the whole room felt more like home. Bucky’s pleased look gave Sam a warm little glow; he felt good, having had a part in Bucky being more comfortable in his house. Helping him to make it his.

Sam squelched the feelings that rose up in his chest when he admitted to himself that _he_ was starting to feel more comfortable - more at home - in Bucky’s house, too, listening to his stories and his laugh. Seeing the intelligence and humor shining back at him in those deep blue eyes.

Bucky thanked him with vanilla milkshakes straight out of his new Ninja blender. He even had bendy straws. “Now, that’s what I call presentation,” Sam teased. His eyes nearly crossed at the cool, creamy richness of the frappe. “Man, that hits the spot.”

“Mm-hm.” Bucky nodded as he sucked down his, catching a drop that flicked onto his rosy lower lip as he pulled his mouth off the straw. “Summer is for ice cream. And we deserved this. Consider this a bribe for helping me out.”

“Oh, my God. Keep twisting my arm. C’mon. Keep twisting.” Sam held out his arm, turning it behind his back slightly, like he wanted Bucky to grab it. It was hard ~~no, make that impossible~~ not to stare at that mouth. Bucky, in the meantime, snorted inelegantly and almost horked shake out his nose.

Sam really didn’t mind saying yes if Bucky asked him to help him out. Not when Bucky made it this easy, and this appealing.

Bucky stared at Sam for a moment, then, looking contemplative. “Hey.”

“What?”

“You can call me, y’know. If you need anything.”

“Uh.” Sam blinked, then laughed. “Okay.” He raised his brows at him, and Bucky returned a shy smile, and Sam felt himself letting being pulled in by it again. It was so easy to do.

“I mean it. Just… if you ever need anything. You’ve done so much for me, and you’ve really gone out of your way and stepped up to help me out. And that’s huge. It’s… you’re one of my first friends in the area since I got back, so this means a lot, Sam. You’re a good man.”

Sam rubbed his nape and felt those ridiculous little happy prickles again. “I feel like you’re going to invite me over to help you build a shed in the backyard tomorrow when you give me a compliment like that…”

“It’s not off the table.”

This time, _Sam_ nearly horked up his shake.

*

 

Turned out, “If you need anything” happened sooner than Sam would have ever thought.

It happened on what could have been any other Tuesday. Sam went to the office after a restless night’s sleep. His first cup of coffee tasted like ashes in his mouth, and as the day wore on, he tasted metal. He showed a house at eleven in the morning, rattling off a cheerful spiel about the travertine tile that the owner put down in the kitchen and foyer in an attempt to distract from the fact that they never replaced the old baseboards; halfway through, he felt a sense of dread creep over him, making his words die off for a moment. The couple waited expectantly for him to continue.

“You mentioned that the oven’s two years old?” the wife prompted.

“Yup. They took great care of it.”

And he continued on, his brilliant smile never faltering, but Sam still wasn’t feeling one hundred percent. Or even ninety percent. It wasn’t something he could explain. He functioned for the rest of the day, doing things more by rote than actual willingness. Sam went to the gym and worked through his usual circuit in the weight room and ran for an hour on the treadmill, eventually wandering to the basketball court to join a pickup game that left him with large, damp triangles staining his gray cotton tank and sweat dripping from his hair. It took the edge off, but once he was home, relaxed and showered for the night, he tried to make a simple dinner. He barely tasted it after the first bite.

Sam stayed up too late watching old episodes of _Cupcake Wars_. Normally, the brightly colored, cheerful displays and whimsically frosted cakes appealed to him, but Sam couldn’t dampen the noise in his head that night, and the little kernel of dread he’d felt all day was growing in his chest. Sam turned off the set halfway through Andrew Zimmern’s _Weird Foods_ and headed back to bed. His kitchen was already pristinely neat, clean dishes neatly racked and counters shining. Sam brushed his teeth, flossed, rinsed with Listerine as long as he could tolerate and said his prayers before slapping off the bedroom light. 

Twenty minutes later, he lay awake in the dark, and a cold trickle of fear crept over his skin. Sam woke up and paced from his bedroom to the kitchen, not knowing what he wanted. He got back into bed.

He was back up two minutes later, restless. Too alert. The noise in his head grew, a mixture of a song he’d heard on the radio on the way to work that wouldn’t turn itself off and played on a constant loop, and the sound of bullets and crumbling debris. Sam felt his skin grow clammy. He thought about taking another shower. He stripped and walked into the stall, not waiting for the temperature to adjust before stepping under the spray. The initial burst of cold drops didn’t phase him. Sam leaned his forehead against the cool tiles and waited for the noise to go down. He hummed the song in his head out loud, trying to drive it out.

It wouldn’t go away.

“Fuck,” he murmured. 

He dried himself briskly and tugged his sleep pants back on and wrapped himself up in his blanket like a burrito. He headed back to the couch and flicked on the set, but all he did was flip channels despondently. Every movie that he recognized didn’t look worth watching again. He spent the next ten minutes scrolling through the menu, but the sounds of unfriendly fire kept him hyperaware and shivering and on edge, and Sam felt like he was losing it.

He was back up and pacing. Sam headed back into the kitchen and made a cup of chamomile. He dumped it out after the second sip. Sam sagged against the counter, leaning on the heels of his hands, breathing raggedly. “You’re okay, you’re okay,” he told himself. 

_FuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK._

No, he wasn’t. No. No. No, no, no…

The thoughts ran themselves through his mind on a fast loop, so many images of all the things he fought so hard to push down, and the song that wouldn’t leave him alone just swelled in volume the harder he tried to drown it out, and Sam felt his eyes spark and burn. The ache in his chest sharpened, as though he’d been kicked.

Then, out of the blue, his phone chirped.

Sam stared at it incredulously as the screen lit up with the text. His eyes flitted to the microwave digital display next to him. Eleven-thirty. No one he knew was still up at hour, leading Sam to wonder if someone drunk-texted him or if it was another Round Table lunch special coupon offer. 

He reached for it and saw Bucky’s number flash up at him, with only the brief “Sam? You up?” for an explanation. Sam huffed a shaky laugh. He swiped the screen to accept it and started typing.

“Yeah,” Sam said aloud. “Don’t mean to be.”

The screen bubbled at him, and then Bucky sent back “U ok?”

Sam only paused a moment, before replying, “No. I’m not.”

And not even three seconds later, the phone rang in his hand.

“Hey, Sam.”

“Hey.” Sam tried to push cheer he didn’t feel into his voice, but he felt so relieved to hear Bucky’s that he wanted to cry.

“Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. I just… I don’t know. I’m just not having a good night.”

“I’m sorry. God, Sam… I just… I don’t know why, but I just had this feeling that I needed to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. I can’t explain why. I just felt this strange sense of worry. It woke me up. I’d already fallen asleep, and some voice in my head told me I really needed to talk to you.”

Sam laughed helplessly, and his voice sounded a little broken.

“Sam?”

“Sorry. M’sorry.”

“Don’t me, Sam.”

“Thank you.” The tears leaked out and spilled down Sam’s cheeks in hot little trickles. “I can’t sleep. It’s just worse tonight than it usually is. My doctor wrote me a scrip for some Ambien a month ago and it didn’t help. And the usual things I do to help with this aren’t helping, and my whole day was off, and I just… can’t…”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s not all right.”

“You’ll be okay, Sam. Talk to me.”

“I lost someone.”

Sam heard Bucky exhale heavily as he absorbed this.

“Yeah? Me, too.”

Sam nodded, even though he knew Bucky couldn’t see it. He mopped at his face with the back of his hand. “I can’t get his song out of my head.”

“He had a song?”

“Yeah. Heard it today. It’s been in my damned head since. I can’t get it out.”

“Can you play a different song?”

“Doesn’t always help.”

“Does talking help?”

“Uh-huh. A little.”

“Sam? Know how we were talking, and I asked you if-”

“I need to see you,” Sam blurted out, cutting him off.”

“I’ll be there in five minutes.”

Sam minimized the call window and texted him the address. He returned to the call and told him, “I know this isn’t ideal, but thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Sam.” He paused a moment. “You’re _always_ welcome.”

*

Sam tried to watch TV again, but he never found anything appealing. He just kept scrolling the menu until he heard Bucky’s engine pull up into his driveway. Sam tossed down the remote and waited with bated breath as Bucky’s footsteps hurried up his front walk and steps. He knocked gently and called out, “Sam? Is this you?”

“Just a second,” Sam confirmed as he stumbled up from the couch. His entire body sagged with relief when he saw Bucky through the peephole in his door, and he flicked on the porch light before he tugged it open. Bucky stood before him, slightly breathless, and his face was concerned. “Hey.”

“Hey. Wanted to make sure I didn’t land on the wrong doorstep.”

Sam shook his head.

“Okay,” Bucky told him, and he stepped across the threshold and pulled Sam into his arms. It wasn’t a gentle hug, or polite. There was no back-clapping or joking intent, no gingerly awkwardness. Bucky held Sam so tight, anchoring him and bringing Sam back to himself with the contact. He smelled like sleep and his skin was so warm, his hard bulk so solid and comforting that Sam felt his chest hitch again. “You’re okay. I’m with you, okay? You’re gonna be okay.”

“Okay.” Sam’s voice was uneven. Bucky just held him and breathed with him.

“It was the damnedest thing, Wilson. I just woke up out of the blue, and it was like I heard your voice in my ear. I just had this feeling, and it wouldn’t stop.”

“Sorry.”

“Sam, please. Please, don’t be sorry.”

“This isn’t what I meant to do…”

“What? Talk? You can. I told you that you can, Sam. Whenever you want.”

Sam shuddered against him, and Bucky rubbed his back. Sam clung to him, and he realized in that moment that Bucky wasn’t in a hurry to let go of him.

“This isn’t something I just do.”

“This isn’t something I’d want you to do alone. Sam, you’re shivering. C’mon.” It had been a hot day, but the temperature dropped quickly after sundown. Sam wasn’t keeping that many heavy blankets on his bed yet, but autumn was around the corner. Bucky led Sam back to his couch, and he urged him to sit down. Bucky wrapped the blanket around him, before raising his arm in an invitation to Sam, which he accepted. Sam curled against Bucky’s side and leaned his head against Bucky’s neck, temple pressed against his pulse.

“Riley was my wing man. Pararescue. He was a good man. And he didn’t make it home. We were on our second tour.” Sam’s voice was still shaking. Bucky nodded and rubbed Sam’s shoulder through the blanket. “We’d been together for two years. Kept it on the low. My office was supposed to be _our_ office. Riley had had license to sell, too. I did this for him.” Sam swallowed around the thickness in his throat and felt tears burning his eyes again. “But it’s always felt so wrong to do it _without_ him. He never made it _home_. He never made… it… home, Bucky, and…”

Sam’s voice failed him.

“It doesn’t get any easier,” Bucky admitted. “But you made it home. And you’ve done some good things, Sam. You do good work. Look what you did for me.” Bucky gave Sam a little shake. "You gave me a reason to get up in the morning, and a safe place to lay my head. You gave me something to make my own. A place for me to put down roots. You know what that means to me, Sam?"

Sam’s shoulders shook, and Bucky just kept rubbing him and holding him. His voice was deep and soft, with a hint of hoarseness due to the lateness of the hour. Listening to him speak broke through the music’s persistent intensity, muffling the lyrics and dimming the volume, but Sam still felt so raw.

“It’s not right that I made it back and he didn’t.”

“It _is_ right that you made it back, Sam. He’d have wanted you to make it home. You don't deserve that any less than he did.”

“This was _his_ dream, Bucky. All of this. House on a quiet street. Nice big yard. We talked about getting a dog. Riley and I were going to share a nice, big office, but I ended up taking the one in the back instead. It’s small enough that I don’t feel guilty about not sharing it. I couldn’t stare at his empty desk and chair. Still feels wrong waking up without him on the other side of the bed and not carpooling to work. I don’t want to unload on you.”

“I can take it, Sam. Okay? Just stay with me. I’m right here with you. I’m here for you.”

Some of the tightness in Sam’s chest began to unknot. 

“Still cold?”

“M’okay.”

“You’re still shivering a little.”

“S’getting better.”

“Okay. If you were staying at my house, I’d feel like a horrible host if you were cold and didn’t tell me so I could get you another blanket. Doesn’t matter if it’s in your house, you know. Just let me take care of you.”

Sam huffed. “I’m the host. And this isn’t how I hoped things would go the first time you came over to visit, Bucky.”

Sam heard the crack of Bucky’s smile and felt the light shake of his chest. “Your place is nice, by the way. It really looks and feels like you.”

“Thanks.”

“I mean that. It’s comfortable.”

“It’s too late for the nickel tour.”

“We’ll limit the tour to the couch.”

“It’s Nantucket.”

“Wow. It’s nice.”

“Mama talked me into it. I haven’t regretted it.”

Sam’s fingers were icy from his panic attack, and Bucky reached over to take one of Sam’s hands, curling it in his warm grip. “Want some tea?”

“Didn’t help. This does.”

“Right. No tea.”

“You smell good.”

“You caught me early enough before I caught my usual case of the night sweats. I didn’t make it to the portion of the night where I dream about the IED throwing me off my feet. So, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Sam burrowed further into Bucky’s embrace in response.

They talked until they were drowsy and hoarse. Sam eventually let Bucky commandeer the remote, and they watched the first _Max Max_ film until they dozed off.

 

*

 

Sam woke with a slight crick in his neck, still propped against Bucky, who was snoring softly. His warm breath steamed Sam’s hairline, and Sam realized he’d gotten pretty familiar with Bucky as they’d dozed. He felt guilty about the drool stain he’d left on Bucky’s soft blue t-shirt. The TV was still droning on, this time with a reverse mortgage commercial featuring a very gray, paunchy Robert Wagner. Sam clicked the TV off and set the remote on the table. When he moved, Bucky yawned cavernously and stretched. He blinked blearily up at Sam.

“You okay?”

“M’better.”

“Okay.” Bucky stared around the room, processing where he was. “Want me to take off?”

Sam numbly shook his head. “The Serta bed’s more comfortable than the Nantucket couch,” he informed him. “That was gonna be one of the stops on that nickel tour we talked about.”

Bucky’s smile was bashful. “I’d kinda wondered if it was.”

Sam stood, still wrapped up in the blanket, and he held his hand out to Bucky, tugging him up from the couch. “C’mon, man.”

He led Bucky back to his room, to the bed with its rumpled sheets and thick comforter. Sam flapped the blanket out over the bed to spread it out and turned down the edge, climbing in. Bucky removed his shoes and lightweight red hoodie, shed the flannel pajama bottoms he’d worn on the drive over, and climbed into bed in just the t-shirt and his boxers. Sam smiled at the little Captain America shields printed on them but didn’t tease him about it. As soon as Sam pulled the covers around them both, Bucky gathered Sam close. A sigh of bone-deep pleasure escaped Sam at the feel of Bucky wrapped around him, chest rising and falling beneath his cheek. He was surrounded by his scent and heat, with those long, dexterous fingers lightly scratching Sam’s scalp and stroking his hair.

The song stopped. Sam listened to Bucky’s even, slow breathing until he dozed off.

*

 

They woke shortly after dawn, without an alarm, both of them habitual early risers. They’d become a tangled mass of limbs, hopelessly disheveled hair, and horrible morning breath. That didn’t stop Bucky from staring at Sam like he’d never seen him before, never _truly_ seen him until that very moment, and then kissed him long and deep. This particular stop on the nickel tour at Sam’s house didn’t involve any history of when the appliances were purchased or if the sink had a working garbage disposal, but the Q &A was very thorough, and none of Sam’s other clients would ever be able to say he took care of them _quite this well._

They rounded up the tour in the kitchen over coffee and leftover Dunkin’ Donuts muffins after Sam showed him how long the hot water tank could last while they showered.

 

*

Later that morning, Carol peered around the corner at Sam and told him, “Call for you on line two. Steve’s returning your message.”

Sam smiled and waved her away as he picked it up. “Hey, stranger.”

“Hey. You mentioned something about a commission?”

“I sure did. I wanted to throw my best friend some business.”

“Nice! What’s he like?”

“He’s open to suggestions. I just sold him a house. He said the living room could use a little character.”

“A little character, huh? Doesn’t just want to hang an Ansel Adams waterfall over the couch and all it good?”

“Nope. I’m going to give you his number. Give him a call and pick his brain.”

“You sound… surprisingly happy, Wilson. Everything going fine?”

Sam grinned to himself. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s going pretty good.”

“Okay. Just asking. So, I guess I’ll give this guy a call. Let’s see if we can give him something that’ll make it look more like home.”


End file.
